The last couple of weeks have been quite busy. Well to be more precise the last few weekends have been busy. In order, we've travelled to Cornwall, Wales and Amsterdam, with varying experiences and anecdotes I may be so indulgent as to share. For your reading ease, I have chosen to break down these tales into 3 separate posts. Starting... now:
Weekend 1: Cornwall. This happened to be on the weekend of St George's day (I can only describe this as the British equivalent of St. Patrick's day), which we found out only when trying to have a quiet ale on Friday evening, after setting up our tent in Wool (in Dorset). This little town has won a place in our hearts (particularly Nicola's, as the camp sites have quote: "the best showers in England"). For me, the mere fact that I can set up my tent and walk to a pub has a certain 'lazy charm', so I tend to take advantage of such facts.
Upon stumbling into our pub, called the 'Ship Inn', we hear and see what appears to be someone's 18th Birthday party (flashing DJ lights, a table or two of friends sitting, a few empty tables with balloons and small paper musical horns). As we turned back, crestfallen, to return to our campsite, we thought that perhaps the front bar was OK for us to go into. We chose to try this alternative, and this turned out to be a fateful decision indeed.
Upon entering the pub, we noticed that it wasn't someone's 18th Birthday party at all, but was instead celebrations for St. George's day (which our keen eyes detected from the English flags everywhere, and the fact that there was no 'birthday boy' or 'girl'. We sat at a small table for four in an 'out of the way' corner, burnished with red and white balloons, streamers, flags and 2 of our very own mini-bugle horns.
Upon scanning our environs, I took note of a particularly ratty looking customer in the corner, sporting the best mullett hair cut I have ever laid eyes on, coupled with sideburns the ex-Mayor of Bendigo would blush at. Something deep inside me told me that my fate was linked with his that night. I ignored this foreboding sense.
On the table next to him was a group of 'young' folk, wiling away the heady days of their youth supping on ales and lagers as fresh and spritely as their very complexions. In the opposite corner was the 'DJ', which may not be what you envision (i.e. hipster loser with pants around knees, sunglasses on inside, with or without American baseball cap). He was more of a '42 year old down-on-his-luck party man from rural England, with a roof over the toolshed and sporting navy blue tracksuit pants and a stretched white t-shirt'-style DJ. He was wielding his iPod (connected to speakers) with might, spinning some tracks which gave these young folk a thing or two to consider.
Whilst 'Shout' by Tears for Fears was blaring (accompanied by spinning and pulsating coloured lights this DJ may have stolen from somewhere), I made my way up to the bar to purchase a pint of the 'local', with a smaller cider for my small friend. The first beer went down quite well. As did the second and third. Things were looking up.
Four beers in, and the youth were dancing feverishly to the dulcet tones of 'Chumbawumba'. The odd-looking gentleman with the silver coiffure was clapping eagerly while stamping his foot to keep time. Nicola and I were getting merry, and I picked up my small novelty horn and gave it a few sharp blows. The gentleman's eyes lit up with glee and his head snapped around to ascertain who the hornblower was - yours truly. He nodded in approval, so I kept playing for all I was worth.
The next few beers and ciders seemed to blur into one, however there came a point in the evening where the DJ had become very self-indulgent indeed and begun playing Metallica non-stop. The younger associate of our silver-haired friend, a tall and lanky dark-haired fellow with a black t-shirt, black jeans and skater shoes, was dancing by himself. His actions involved a combination of air guitar and headbanging.
I was continuing to blow my horn in time of the music, and after a while the silver-haired chap and his now exhausted friend came over to our table and took a seat. Nicola and I were delighted at the opportunity to talk to these curious folk. As the older man told me about how he was a post-modern artist, who uses 'lots of colours', the younger fellow and Nicola were engaged in conversations on politics.
Up closer, the mullett was even more impressive, and I couldn't help but cast a few furtive sideways glances at the 'do as he was speaking. He mentioned he liked the way I played the horn, and thought I kept the beat well. I knew I had.
After another 10 minutes, Nicola and I sidled away and retreated to our tent. It was an evening which was entirely worth the splitting headache I suffered the next morning, well at least I had thought so before said headache.
From Wool, we made our way to Cornwall slowly, and got to our campsite in Newquay (on the West Coast) mid afternoon. After setting up, we drove to the western most point of mainland Britain, land's end, and then to Penzance. Sadly, no pirates were to be found.
The next day, we went for a surf in the 9.6 degree celcius water. We did ensure we hired thick wetsuits and wetsuit boots. It was quite pleasant actually. After doing a bit of driving around this western part of Britain, we made our way to the southern-most point of the UK - Lizard point, which was nice.
We then made our way home, calling in here and there to see some sights and delights of the local areas (including a 'cream tea' from some lady making them at her house - I think her name was Jan). We called into a place called Beer on the way home, which Nicola and I loved; I think we may go back here again one weekend. We had dinner a pub there, before trekking our way home.
Needless to say we were both thoroughly exhausted upon arriving back in Southampton at 11:00pm...
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